


they smile when they see you (so why the long face?)

by far2late



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Amnesia, Angst, Angst and Feels, Character Death, Dave | Technoblade and Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Dead Wilbur Soot, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Ghosts, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Insane Wilbur Soot, Moving On, Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Protective Toby Smith | Tubbo, Sad, Sad Ending, Sad Floris | Fundy, Sad Toby Smith | Tubbo, Sad Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wilbur Soot-centric, no beta i never beta ever, no beta we die like wilbur, sally the salmon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:35:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27639638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/far2late/pseuds/far2late
Summary: "His fingers trace over mahogany wood and brush metal strings, fingers grayed and delicate as he fingers at the strings with purpose unfound. His voice is broken, straggly and soft as he sings, but it comes anyway. His voice follows the winds and drifts with the lilies and vines as he takes note of the way stars slowly dot back into the endless black canvas he had been floating in. If he listens hard enough, he can hear whispers and crickets in the background, fading away as he repeats familiar fingerstyle tunes on the strings of the guitar he has missed for so long."orof tubbo, wilbur, fundy, and the endings they learn to accept.
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 10
Kudos: 142





	they smile when they see you (so why the long face?)

It starts like this; Wilbur Soot, Tommy and Tubbo come across land owned by a distant ruler and his two friends. 

It starts like this; They make something out of nothing and use it to further their reach into the refugees from the Capitol and hold their friends close and their enemies at a foot’s distance, left alone in an abandoned castle to rot on a throne of blood. 

It starts like this; An election goes wrong, and two of the trio are banished. They get beaten down and hurt and betrayed, and the negatives outweigh the hope. The melancholy goes to Wilbur’s head and takes over his brain in a slow sludge of psychosis that doesn’t numb even with the help of saline solution. 

It ends like this; A deal is made and a nation is blown sky high, and his hands shake and his heart rips itself out of his chest as a sword tears its way into his abdomen. It ends with black and painless sleep and an infinite nothing that surrounds him with the air of a lullaby, honey and molasses seeping into his bones to warm his soul and provide stableness that he hadn’t felt for many moons. He isn’t cold anymore, Wilbur realizes. 

New beginnings come rarely, so slow and torturous that they don’t seem worth the pain. But some things seep through the endless sleep that prove to better his mood rather than ruin it. Wilbur finds himself smiling for the first time in a very long time as flowers fill his chest and spill from his chest, his coat replaced with yellow and his beanie replaced with a guitar that he hugs close to his chest. 

His fingers trace over mahogany wood and brush metal strings, fingers grayed and delicate as he fingers at the strings with purpose unfound. His voice is broken, straggly and soft as he sings, but it comes anyway. His voice follows the winds and drifts with the lilies and vines as he takes note of the way stars slowly dot back into the endless black canvas he had been floating in. If he listens hard enough, he can hear whispers and crickets in the background, fading away as he repeats familiar fingerstyle tunes on the strings of the guitar he has missed for so long. 

  
Why had he ever parted from such a dear instrument, anyway? There’s little that he remembers about the guitar, and he finds that it’s something that makes him content rather than alarmed. He’s cradled in the arms of Demeter and the roses grow around his body as he fades out of black and into grass and weeds and reeds, floating down the river with dry arms and back. 

Nothing quite makes sense, he thinks. Everything is foggy, and his brain is tinged with white smoke that tastes like caramel and the world spins in a dizzying, addicting way that makes him remember what it was like to spin in his father’s arms as though nothing was wrong and he was a child once more. 

There’s no ache in his chest, no pain in his eyes and no burning sensation that tingles from his fingers to his toes that pleads him to destroy what once brought him joy. There’s only the sensation of being able to see everything and nothing at once, and the stars stare back at him as he smells smoke in the far off distance. 

  
He smells smoke in the far off distance, and lights flood L’manberg once more, drawing him to the country like a moth to a candle. Wilbur feels like an insect, moreso than he had in a long time. Everything is so large and new and beautiful, nothing feels quite claustrophobic. He wonders when they had time to expand, how everything has grown so big in the little time he was away. It was just yesterday the Election had taken place, wasn’t it? 

He floats down the river still, collecting lilypads as he basks in the moonlight and revels in Orion and Sirius, the stars framing his sky like there’s nothing more that matters. He can’t remember anything that doesn’t involve Tommy, Tubbo, Niki, Eret, and his Fundy, They’re all good memories, so he doesn’t wonder why they haven’t been forgotten. 

Wilbur giggles, thinking back to times of the Camar Van and the documents he had written in the wake of winning the war against Dream. The victory was sweet, and he remembers the way his nation’s eyes lit up in the knowledge that they had finally found themselves independent. Those days were filled with celebration, drinking, festivals and happiness that was unparalleled to anything else he knew. He doesn’t remember much from before that. He doesn’t wonder why. 

He floats down the river, and he bumps against docks. They’re familiar, he finds himself thinking. Tubbo flashes through his mind, and it sends a happy pang down his chest that has him scrambling up the side, looking for a ladder to haul himself over the edge. His fingers curl around metal rails and he drags himself up, knuckles white as he pulls on them for support. They don’t fade to any colour darker as he releases his grip. 

The guitar on his back is surprisingly dry, he finds. The water hasn’t touched it at all, nor is he sopping wet as he thought he would be. Wilbur knows how wet clothes feel, the way they drag at his bones and wet his skin and make him so cold. He never liked being cold, but it was worth it after going out swimming with the people he loves for hours. His fingers could go pruney and lips blue before he would pull himself out, simply for the sake of the knowledge that the river kissed his skin long as he could force it to. 

He wonders if Sally is still around. He doesn’t remember what happened to her, and Fundy needed someone in his life to hold him accountable while Wilbur floats down the river, away from everything and everyone and towards the smell of pine and peppermint that assaults his senses every time he finds himself longing for family. 

Spanish lullabies fill his ears from the quiet corner of the docks as he walks by, hearing them pause as he doesn’t stop walking. He thinks he hears his name, but it’s distant and far, and the lights from L’manberg are so close that he doesn’t want to find himself away from it for too long. It’s warm and reminds him of home, though it reeks of licorice and cherry rather than the pine he has become so accustomed to in the past hour… No, not an hour. The past month? Year? In the past… 

In the past. 

Faintly, his heart hurts. The feeling buries itself as he catches sight of Tubbo, wearing a proper green uniform and eyes the same bright blue as always. What’s different is everything else around him, and it’s almost enough to stop him in his tracks completely, though there’s little that surprises him anymore. 

L’manberg is a crater, now. The pool of water he had treasured so is barely intact, and the walls are gone from his nation, as though they were whisked away by the winds and gone with Dream’s command, taking away what little they gained. His footsteps falter, but the Camar Van is there still, if not missing its hot dog on the top. There are buildings he doesn’t recognize and worlds that flit through his mind. He smells smoke and hears fireworks and his vision is painted red and blue before he remembers how to breathe again. He didn’t think he had taken in a breath since he had found the stars again.

The stars never leave him for too long, he finds. He doesn’t care. 

Tubbo is still there, though everything is different. Spruce homes line the crater, and grass slowly grows overtop the worst of it. He looks different, and Wilbur is reminded that he doesn’t know how long it’s been since the stars stole him from his home and the moon held him in its heart. He finds himself following the younger’s movements, watching him search for stone and wood as the single bit of obsidian he remembers the Declaration of Independence was left on stood on its own in a small ring of wood yet to be built upon. 

He doesn’t know why the Camar Van was taken down. He doesn’t care to find out. 

Tubbo notices him before he can introduce himself again. He watches the boy look up from his work to go scold whoever stands by the chests on the wooden platform, and he sees the boy freeze in his tracks when he catches sight of the elder. It’s such a Tubbo-esque move that Wilbur finds himself smiling at the sight of him, though he doesn’t share the same smile. 

The blond looks tired, he notes for the first time. His eye is bandaged and his face is scarred and tired and his eyes look older than he remembers. Wilbur frowns as Tubbo doesn’t move, and instead walks up to the younger. 

He stumbles back, and Wilbur is confused once more. He outstretches a hand to the teen, who flinches away from it like he’s being handed poison. Wilbur hesitates before speaking, voice creaky and sore and holding promises that he doesn’t think Tubbo can hold to. 

“Tubbo? What’s… what’s happened?” 

… 

In another world, Wilbur stands alone in the face of L’manberg and the crater he’s been left with. Tommy and Tubbo are far from his side, broken and bloody on the side of the road and Phil stands over him, no sympathy in his eyes. He closes his eyes and a sword is stabbed through him and he is gone once more.

In another world, Techno holds him back and Tubbo accepts his role. Techno aims his crossbow at Wilbur’s head and blows his brains out before repeating the action on Tubbo and Tommy. Phil comes too late and the withers tear apart his eldest son’s home while wolves feast on his bones. 

In another world, Tubbo dons a suit and stands against Tommy and Schlatt is buried with the utmost respect. Wilbur’s fingers wrap around iron bars and he hangs himself in his cell as Tommy is hung in a courtyard, blank faces following his body swinging side from side until the executioner decides he’s been humiliated long enough and takes him down. 

In this world, Wilbur’s hands are white and his eyes have blackened bags under them that hold nothing but sleeplessness. Stress is non-existent in his body and Tubbo wears a president’s suit, Tommy by his side and Schlatt is gone. Techno has torn apart his land and someone had made the final blow to destroy the land. 

In this world, Tubbo and Wilbur sit side by side with their legs overhanging the ravine that has grown in the wake of the explosion. 

“What’s happened, Tubbo?” Wilbur asks again, half-an-hour later. Tubbo hasn’t spoken to him much since he had first asked the question. He stares at Wilbur like he isn’t sure what he’s seeing, and Wilbur doesn’t understand why until Tubbo answers, staring up into the stars and away from his pale face. 

“You died,” He says plainly, as though it’s a fact of life. Wilbur supposes it is. He nods in return, and Tubbo hums, as he usually does. Wilbur finds it comforting, though the cold wraps around him a little too close for comfort as he revels in the music that the boy takes with him wherever he goes. His guitar feels heavy on his back as he lets his hands wander from his lap to his back, pulling the instrument away. 

“Am I a ghost, then?” Wilbur asks, staring at his reflection in the back of his guitar as though the mahogany holds the answers to the universe that he can’t find in the stars. He doesn’t know when the stars had stopped helping him, and he doesn’t understand why they still touch his skin now. He should be among them in Elysium but he is far too close to the Underworld for his skin to touch clouds. 

“I suppose so,” Tubbo answers, looking back to him with a weak chuckle. “Either that or I’m going insane.” Wilbur chuckles as well, though it’s a raspy sound that grates his ears. 

“I feel real,” He informs Tubbo, who nods in reply. He doesn’t know what else to say, and his eyes follow the destruction that plagues the land. Tubbo notices and his mouth opens once more. 

“Are you proud of what’s happened in your wake, then?” 

“What do you mean?” He asks, curious. Tubbo doesn’t seem to like the response, as his eyes grow stormy and his small smile drops from his face. He tips his head, examining the man as though he’ll disappear where he sits. Wilbur isn’t sure he won’t. 

“What do you remember, Wilbur?” Tubbo asks. Wilbur sits for a moment, blinking for the first time in half-an-hour. 

“I remember the war against Dream. Starting it, at least. I think so. Then everything goes away and we’ve won, though Eret isn’t there. I don’t remember why, but I miss him. And I remember an Election, and I remember winning. I remember naming you president, and then woke up to stars.” He turns back to Tubbo after his explanation and finds that the mildly distressed expression hasn’t vanished from his face, despite the simplicity of his words. 

“Did I miss something?” He tacks on at the end, as though becoming a ghost will remove his memories as well. 

Tubbo nods, eyes shiny. 

Oh. 

Wilbur echoes the nod, turning the guitar over in his hands, staring at the strings before pulling the instrument into position, legs pulled away from the edge and crossing, the body of the guitar resting in his lap. His fingers run over engraving on the back of the neck as he hears Tubbo clear his throat, sniffing loudly and coughing exaggeratedly. He doesn’t comment on it, only cycling through the same familiar riffs he had learned so long ago under calloused hands and kind smiles. 

“You missed a lot of stuff, Wilbur,” Tubbo says, voice shaky. Wilbur knows enough about Tubbo to know it’s best not to interrupt him while he speaks, so he lets him continue as he tunes his guitar delicately, limber fingers flicking the metal bits at the end of his guitar as they shine dully in the light of the moon. 

  
“You know the Election, yeah?” Wilbur nods, humming. 

“We won, I remember. Me and Tommy.” Tubbo winces slightly, and it doesn’t escape Wilbur’s notice. The man frowns. “Is that not what happens?” 

“No,” Tubbo says after a beat. “You had the popular vote, you and Tommy. 46% of the votes went to you two, but what happened was that Quackity and Schlatt had a coalition government, and they-” 

“Who?” Wilbur interrupts, frowning. Tubbo is taken aback by the interruption, but something in his eyes looks sad as he registers what Wilbur had said. 

“You don’t remember… You don’t remember Schlatt?” Tubbo asks, chewing at his lip. Wilbur shakes his head as an answer, fingers strumming at his guitar gently. Tubbo seems taken aback at the news, though Wilbur isn’t sure how to respond to something like this. Schlatt must’ve been someone important in his life if his reaction is anything to go by. 

“Was Schlatt good?” Wilbur questions. 

“No,” Tubbo answers immediately. Wilbur nods, humming once more. His fingers still over the guitar strings. 

“I don’t think I want to hear about what I missed.” Tubbo nods. 

“That’s alright. I don’t really want to dwell on it.” Wilbur wonders what he had missed that was so bad that Tubbo wouldn’t want to repeat it simply for his own sake, and he finds himself glad that he doesn’t remember most of it. His thoughts wander under the inky sky, and Wilbur’s eyes follow the clouds as another question pops into his mind. 

Before he gets the chance to speak, an incredulous voice echoes across the platform they had been sat at. 

“Dad?” The voice comes, and Wilbur finds himself turning to face his son, who wears the same black bomber jacket that he remembers from before the crayon suit and finds a smile gracing his face at the same time Tubbo’s fills with panic. 

“Fundy-” 

“Son? I’ve missed you,” He interrupts with a gentle smile, locking eyes with the child that seems in disbelief of the situation. A hysterical laugh finds its way from his throat, bubbling up as Wilbur stares at him. 

“You died. I saw- I saw you die. You died,” He repeated, voice quavering as he blinked rapidly, voice growing thick. He looks back and forth between the man and Tubbo, as though looking to him to make sure he isn’t going insane. At Tubbo’s sad smile and nod, a choked out whine escaped Fundy. Wilbur’s heart sinks in his chest as he moves to his feet. Tubbo hangs back, watching the two in silence as Wilbur moves over to his son, hesitating before embracing him in a full hug. 

Fundy is warm to the touch and Wilbur can feel his soul burning as the contact grows stronger at every second that passes. He feels hands scramble to grab at the back of his yellow sweater tightly, gripping it with iron knuckles that almost jut into his back. Wilbur feels the front of his shirt grow wet and he shushes his son gently, one hand cradling the back of his head. 

“It’s alright,” He whispers. “I’m here now.” 

Fundy’s sobs almost grow louder, and Wilbur feels his heart clench as he lets his son cry, would let him cry for a hundred moons if he needed that much time to recover from what he had seen. 

… 

  
  


Fundy joins Tubbo and Wilbur on the spruce platform. Tubbo has already told Fundy that Wilbur doesn’t remember much, though he doesn’t specify what. It shouldn’t surprise him that he was questioned about his memories once more. 

“Do you remember blowing up L’manberg?” 

The words freeze him in his tracks for a long moment, eyes flitting from his guitar to his son in an instant. His son stares back with a dark curiosity in his eyes that has him stifling a cry of ‘ _ What cursed you to look to your kin with such sadness and bitterness that should be directed to whoever had taken your happiness from you? _ ’ 

  
The question registers a minute later, and his mouth moves without his consent, his gaze tearing away from Fundy to survey the land, blinking. 

“I… I did this?” His voice is soft and unbelieving, and Fundy seems to catch the mistake he makes in his words as he scrambles to take them back, but Wilbur simply hums to himself, once. His eyes are wet and Wilbur doesn’t register the quiet tears that track down his face and dissipate the moment after. Tubbo and Fundy seem to notice, but they don’t say much, falling silent. 

“Was I worse than Schlatt?” He asks, voice surprisingly clear as he speaks. 

“No,” Fundy and Tubbo say in unison, both increasingly sure as they said so. Wilbur thinks it’s the first time he hears the two agree on something since before the Revolution. It has him barely smiling, though the smile drops away a little bit as Tubbo continues, albeit hesitantly. 

“I think you had started reaching the end of your rope before you died, and you were just… a little bit meaner. I think. I don’t blame you, but it was just… you were different. And scared. And I think- I think Schlatt messed you up a lot,” Tubbo says, stumbling over his words as he tries to explain what he means. Wilbur nods again, as he has been doing over the course of the conversation. 

“What Tubbo means is that you were doing what you thought was best, but it hurt a lot of people in the end,” Fundy cuts in, blunt in his words. Wilbur sucks in an unneeded breath through his teeth, blinking rapidly once more. 

“Was Alive-Wilbur more of a pain to be around?” He questions, mostly to himself, though he gets an answer through two affirmative hums. His eyes are trained on his fingers as he rifles through chord progressions once more. His nails are transparent under the moonlight. 

“Maybe it’s better now that I’m dead,” Wilbur states plainly. Silence echoes throughout the group of three, crickets accenting the bleary feel of melancholy that seeps into their skin. 

“Yeah,” Tubbo says, voice breaking. “I think you’re happier, now.” 

Fundy stays silent. Wilbur can’t blame him. He wouldn’t know what to say, either.

… 

“Did I ever tell you what really happened to your mother, Fundy?” Wilbur questions as the moon dips lower in the sky, hours passing as though they were being dragged through molasses. The fox hums a negative, sitting up and turning to Wilbur, who’s moved from the planks of the floor to sitting on a stray post, one leg resting over the other with his guitar cradled in his lap. His hands hadn’t left the instrument since he had picked it up. 

“She wasn’t really just a salmon, you know,” He says plainly, watching as Fundy grows curious. Tubbo does as well, as he moves closer to the man. Wilbur feels like a storyteller as he towers over the two children, one only metaphorically young while the other holds the weight of the world on his shoulders at an age too young. 

“No?” Fundy questions. Wilbur shakes his head, a fond smile growing on his face as he strums his guitar once more. The chord is slow and gentle, and it hits his heart with a pang that he didn’t think he could feel as a ghost. 

“No,” He confirms. “She was wonderful. My first love, my muse. I wrote a-many songs about her, everything about her. She was something of a river deity, she was so beautiful when I first came upon her. Lips red and rosy and cheeks looking as though they were dusted with watercolour. You have her eyes, of course. Golden and round and holding the stars in them with a softness I hadn’t witnessed elsewhere. She was delicate, but fiery and strong and kept the world on its tippy-toes.” 

Wilbur loses himself in memories for a moment, and he remembers being a teenager stumbling across that river for the very first time. The girl that had stared back at him back then had her curly brown hair tied into a slick braid that cascaded down her back and left him wondering what she would look like should a touch of brevity reach her. 

The sun had framed her golden eyes in its light with such a hubris that Wilbur had sworn she was a gift from the Gods, maybe Aphrodite herself, in all her splendour. He was quick to fall, and she was quick to leave him behind with nothing but a son and a broken heart he was forced to nurse alongside a baby he had no knowledge of raising. 

“She was wonderful,” Wilbur said softly, eyes wandering off into the distance. “But she left, little after a year, I think. Left me with you and went down the river in a canoe. I never saw her again, but I don’t think she made it out of that river, in the end. She was too close to the moon to leave its tides empty and the ocean wanted her almost as much as Elysium did.” 

Fundy stares up to him with an empty look, mostly blank of shock as he registered the words that Wilbur had spoken. The man continues, not pausing in his words as he continued to speak. 

“I don’t think she had ever meant to truly leave me and you behind, Fundy. I think it was moreso because there was a wanderlust within her that forced her to find her calling in farther lands so she would quench her longing.” 

“I was the same way, for a while,” Wilbur reflects, humming to himself. “Until I had found L’manberg. It had felt like home, at the time.” 

“It still is home,” Tubbo interrupts quietly, hugging himself with a jacket laid over his shoulders rather than pulled over his arms like intended. Wilbur pauses as he considers the words, contemplating how to respond. 

“I don’t think I’ve had a home in a long time, Tubbo,” He tells the boy softly. Wilbur almost regrets it as the teen wilts where he sits, but the understanding that colours his soft ‘oh’ was worth the quiet disappointment that the teen had felt. 

“Do you think she would be proud?” Fundy asks quietly, voice drawing Wilbur’s attention as he turns back to his son. Wilbur smiles softly, moving off the post with a lightness he didn’t know he had and cups his son’s face in his hands, thumb brushing over his cheek. 

“She already is,” He says, and the words feel more certain than they do like an empty promise. Wilbur can feel her smile in the way Fundy’s eyes fill with tears, and he’s taken back to that stupid flower field they laid in for hours when she had gotten away from her father’s strict care. He smells dandelions and lilies and marigolds and tulips and he stares into Fundy’s eyes as he pulls his son into a hug once more. 

“I’m proud of you, son,” He says softly. He opens his arms to Tubbo, who hesitantly joins the pile and they slump down together, both of them burning holes into Wilbur’s sides as he ignores the cold and warms his bones. 

  
“So proud of both of you.” He repeats, as though his words are gospel and he’s the choir. He can feel the warmth of an imaginary sun on his back and the smell of salt-water overwhelming his senses in agreement.

Wilbur pulls away from his son and his protege, eyes wet, though his cheeks stayed dry. He picks up his guitar as the sun just barely peeks over the horizon. He can see the sleep seeping into their eyes and the way the wind whips tears of exhaustion away from their tear-lines. 

It’s late, much later than they should be up. He knows for a fact that the two have been working all day because he hadn’t expected anything less from the pair that had driven him up the wall when Dream was still their biggest problem and when Wilbur was still by their sides. He knows that there’s little that they need more than rest, and he can feel the tug of elders on his soul as he clings to a corpse that no longer belongs to him. 

He reaches for the last thing that he remembers playing such a large role in his life, and his fingers feel more solid for it. 

The guitar feels heavy in his lap, and his fingers feel transparent against the metal strings as his mouth grows stained with pine and peppermint. Wilbur could choke on it if he needed to breathe, and he knows that there’s one thing he has to do. 

“Go to sleep, you two,” He tells the duo after a moment of silence, who look as though they want to refuse before he speaks again. “Everything will be alright when you’re awake. I’ll watch over you.” 

Fundy stares at him with gold eyes, and if Wilbur blinks he can see a flicker of his mother in them, torn between love and adventure. He closes them and lies down, back pressed against the spruce boards. Tubbo follows suit, though there’s a choked sadness in his eyes that makes Wilbur remember that the teen is wise beyond his years and scars echo the pain of many moons he’s lived through. It feels cruel, to do what he’s about to, but there’s little other choice he has at this point.

His fingers fall over the guitar strings once more, and the tune comes easily, melody following as well. 

“ _ I think this time I’m… dying _ ,” The word follow softly, in the wake of a sad guitar intro that sinks into his bones. Wilbur can feel the salty tears flow down his cheeks as they seep into his mouth and replace bitter black moult that feels as though will overtake him in nothing short of a minute. 

His fingers quiver over the guitar strings and his tight grasp on the neck of his instrument grows shaky as Fundy and Tubbo fade into dreams of flowers and fields and Wilbur’s kind smile and loving hands that draw them close and leads them in a dance of fairies and elves in rings of mushrooms. Their dreams are dotted with magic and potions and Sally and love that they haven’t felt for many years, and the tension falls from their shoulders as the grass tickles their knees and stains their clothes. 

Wilbur’s guitar lays silent on the wooden planks beside, beanie resting on top and a quiet laugh of mocha and tears drifting through the wind as a whisper of golden promises echoes through the sunrise. 

The scent of coffee lingers until Tubbo awakens, chest tight and eyes bleary with a sinking feeling in his chest to confirm what he knew was coming. The empty planks speak more than Wilbur ever could, and guitar echoes in his ears as his eyes grow wet again. 

He’s finally home, Tubbo thinks. 

They’re finally home, Wilbur echoes in the winds.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm ngl i got emotional writing this since im also incredibly bad at accepting death when it comes. this served as a bit of a vent fic for me as well as a way to acknowledge ghostbur in the only way i knew how lol. i hope you liked reading this and it proved as cathartic to you as it did to me. i'm sorry i didn't include tommy, but it just went like that and my fingers haven't stopped moving in the past three hours since i started writing this so please enjoy what you get as i'm feeling incredibly melancholy now :')


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